


Tea, Chess, and Firewhiskey

by LilyIsAwesomerThanYou



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Book 7: Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows, Friendship, Hurt/Comfort, On the Run
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-21
Updated: 2017-09-21
Packaged: 2019-01-01 05:49:24
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,112
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12149949
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LilyIsAwesomerThanYou/pseuds/LilyIsAwesomerThanYou
Summary: Harry and Hermione have a night of tea, chess, and firewhiskey while mourning Ron's abandonment. Set in DH.





	Tea, Chess, and Firewhiskey

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted on FF.net  
> I don't own Harry Potter.

Tea, Chess, and Firewhiskey

From where I am sitting, I can see Hermione. I am lying comfortably in my bunk, hands behind my head, ankles crossed. She is not. She is unimaginably stiff, her eyes fixed invariably on the sagging roof of the tent above her. Her arms are crossed stubbornly across her stomach.

She has been like this for days – ever since the day that Ron walked out a week ago. The storm rages on outside the tent, rain pouring down torrentially from the sky and soaking the ground around the tent. I thank Merlin once more for drying spells.

The first night, she searched the woods for hours, rain soaking through her thin sweater and chilling her to the bone. She came back well past midnight, hair dripping, eyes red and puffy from exhaustion and tears. I had simply spelled her dry, wrapped a warm towel around her, and pulled her to my chest sadly.

Every night since has been a combination of keeping watch and sitting like this in bed—stoic and apathetic. I think that she refuses to let me see her hurting. For the seven years that we have known each other, we have rarely kept anything from each other, so it hurts all the more to see the wall that she has built between us.

So I watch her from across the room, knowing that she misses him—knowing that she can't possibly dare to hope that he'll apparate back and pull back the tent flap with a sheepish, apologetic grin. But of course, he doesn't. He's long gone, and it angers me to think that he is most likely curled up in his warm bed, being fed homemade meals from his mother, while we shiver out here in the forest and starve. And as much as it pains me to say it, I think that I have finally mustered up enough anger to hate him.

"I can see you staring at me, Harry," Hermione murmurs, her dead voice cracked and hoarse from not being used for a week.

I am far from embarrassed as I turn onto my side to look at her fully. My voice is equally quiet when I reply, "I know."

A sad silence settles between us in the tent once again, and I flip over to stare at the ceiling again.

Before long, she speaks again, her voice just as quiet and just as sad. "He'll come back, won't he?"

I take a long moment to answer, and when I do, it is not the answer that she wants to hear. "I don't know, 'Mione. I think that he had been thinking about leaving for a long time and that bloody Horcrux brought the thought to the front of his mind again."

"You know, all that stuff that he said about me wanting to leave . . . I never said it the way that he said. I was a bit disappointed with how little we have to go on, I suppose, but I would never abandon you because of it. It may make Dumbledore's mission much more challenging, but I don't care." Hermione paused. "I won't leave like he did."

I give her a grim smile that I know she doesn't see. Climbing down from the bed, I set up a game of chess. "Play a game of chess with me?"

For the first time in days, Hermione turns and looks at me. Her eyes are still red and puffy, and I can clearly see that she's been crying recently. She climbs down and sits opposite me before pitifully mumbling, "Wizard chess is barbaric."

I grin cheekily and command my pawn to make his first move. As the piece slides forward on the board, Hermione smiles slightly. I figure that she is already planning my defeat, so I smile broadly and challengingly as she urges her own pawn to move across the board.

She looks at my face and smiles hesitantly. Her countenance is suddenly overcome by sadness again as she says, "I miss the good days. The days when the only fights that we had were because Crookshanks chased Scabbers around the common room again. I miss knowing that while we may be angry and not be speaking to each other, we would make up in a few days. And I hate sitting here hoping that he'll come back and feeling that hope diminish slowly with every minute that he doesn't."

I offer her and cup of tea and move to go make it in the corner of the tent that serves as a makeshift kitchen. I carefully let the tea steep as I turn around to face her again.

"I know. I miss them too. I miss the days that Hogwarts was a safe place and not something to fear. I miss the days that we could still learn and play Quidditch and hang out without the constant thought of Voldemort hanging over our heads." I picture Hogwarts in my mind, free from Voldemort's touches and with Dumbledore still as Headmaster before shaking my head to rid myself of the nostalgia-infused image.

The tea finishes brewing and I carry it over to her, setting it on the table beside the chessboard. She quickly stands and turns to her bed, removing something small from beneath the mattress before returning to the table. I watch in surprise as she uncorks a bottle of firewhiskey and pours a substantial measure of it into her tea.

Hermione does not miss the shocked expression on my face and smiles amusedly. "Today is the kind of day that calls for firewhiskey in my tea. Are you surprised?"

I merely nod as Hermione stirs the alcohol into her drink and takes a long swig. She shudders delicately but lets a peaceful smile spread across her face. I am doubly shocked when she stands and pulls out another mug, into which she pours another measure of firewhiskey. She offers it to me across the table, and I pull it toward me curiously.

One sip of the fiery liquid has me hacking and coughing, my eyes watering painfully as the drink slips and burns down the back of my throat. However, as I recover my dignity and sit upright while taking another drink, I begin to understand the comfort found in the alcohol. A warmth spreads within me that I have never known before, and for the first time in my seventeen years, I feel truly happy. I can barely think of the pain associated with Ron's memory at the moment.

Today marks one week since Ron walked out on us. Tonight is a night for tea, chess, and firewhiskey.


End file.
